Rogues on the River

by Alice Simpson

  “This is the place,” I said, pausing in from of the building. “But what’s become of the Green Parrot?”

  The sign was gone, the window was no longer obscured, and even the door with the little sliding window had been taking off its hinges and replaced with a wooden one painted a cheerful blue.

  “Are you sure you have the correct address, Jane?”

  “I’m certain of it. The sign has been removed.”

  I went down the stone steps and pressed my face against the window glass.

  The entrance hall was as empty, as was the former dining room beyond. All the tables and chairs had been removed, even the palm trees and decorations, but bits of colored paper and menu cards still littered the floor. I tested the door and found it locked.

  “It’s deserted, Dad.”

  My father came down the steps, and I stepped aside to allow him to peer through the window.

  “This certainly is strange. Let’s inquire next door.”

  There was a bakery next door. A stout woman in a white apron was arranging frosted cakes in the showcase.

  “Good morning,” my father greeted her, removing his hat. “Can you tell me what has become of the establishment next door?”

  “What establishment next door?”

  “The Green Parrot,” I said.

  “Are you from the police?” the woman asked.

  “No, I’m connected with the Greenville Examiner.”

  “Oh, a reporter,” said the woman, and Dad did not correct her. “I thought maybe you were from the police. Yesterday, I saw a man watching the Green Parrot, and I said to my husband, Gus, ‘The cops are getting ready to raid that place.’”

  “And did they?”

  “Not that I know of. The outfit just moved out. And a very odd time to be doing it, too, if you ask me.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “A couple of moving vans pulled up there about two o’clock this morning. They were loading things in until almost dawn.”

  “Can you tell me where they went or why they moved out?”

  “No, I can’t.” The women shrugged. “Like as not they were afraid the police were going to raid ’em. I’m telling you that place deserved to be closed up. Everyone knows they were selling bootleg liquor, and who knows what all else went on in there.”

  “What are you insinuating?” I asked.

  I thought the woman was going to clam up, but I gave her my best ingratiating smile, and that seemed to loosen her lips.

  “I never was inside the place,” she said, “but some mighty strange-acting people seemed to be running it. Why, I’ve seen men go in and out of there at four o’clock of a morning, hours after the place had closed up.”

  “Anything, in particular, you can remember about the men?”

  “I couldn’t rightly say that there was anything special about them. Rough-looking types mostly. My husband, Gus, thinks a lot of gambling went on, in addition to the alcohol. Not that I’m opposed to anyone having a tipple now and again—I never did think Prohibition was a sensible idea—but these speakeasy places always seem to attract the criminal type. Anyway, I’m glad the outfit’s gone.”

  Dad and I left the bakery. As we walked toward our parked car, several persons ran past us toward an alley. When we reached the entranceway to the alley, I saw that a small crowd of people had gathered not far from the former rear exit of the Green Parrot.

  “Probably an accident of some sort,” Dad said.

  “Let’s find out,” I said and wormed my way forward through the crowd.

  When Dad and I reached the front, I was started to see a man sprawled face downward on the brick pavement. A garbage collector jabbered excitedly that he had discovered the victim only a moment before.

  “Has anyone called an ambulance?” I asked.

  “I’ll send for one, Ma’am,” offered a ragged-looking boy.

  The boy extended his hand. I rooted around in my hand bag and found two quarters. I gave him one and promised him the other if he returned with a policeman, an ambulance or a doctor.

  My father bent over the prone figure.

  “He ain’t dead, is he?” the garbage man asked.

  “Unconscious,” said Dad after feeling for a pulse and finding one. “A nasty head wound. I’d say he either fell or was struck from behind.”

  My father rolled over the limp figure. It was Fred Halvorson.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As my father covered Fred Halvorson with his overcoat, the young man stirred and opened his eyes. Fred looked up at Dad with a dazed expression, and for a moment the injured man did not attempt to speak.

  “Take it easy,” my father advised.

  “What happened to me?” the young man whispered.

  “That’s what we’d like to know. Were you struck?”

  “Don’t remember,” Halvorson mumbled. He closed his eyes again but aroused as he heard the shrill siren of an approaching ambulance. “Don’t let ’em take me to a hospital,” he pleaded. “Take me home.”

  The ambulance drew up in the alley. Stretcher bearers carefully lifted the young man.

  “I’m all right,” he insisted, trying to sit up. “Just take me home.”

  “Where’s that?” asked one of the attendants.

  Fred Halvorson mumbled an address which was on a street not far from the boat dock he operated.

  “We’ll take you to the hospital for a check-up,” the ambulance men insisted. ”If you’re okay, you’ll be released.”

  Dad and I followed the ambulance to City Hospital. After an hour’s wait in the lobby, we were told that Fred Halvorson had suffered only minor injuries. His head wound had been dressed, and he would be released within the hour.

  “What caused the accident?” my father asked one of the nurses. “Did the young man say?”

  “He couldn’t seem to remember what happened,” she replied. “At least he wouldn’t talk to the doctor about it.”

  My father was overdue at the Examiner office, so he left me on my own to wait for Fred. I loitered about the lobby for an hour and a half until Fred Halvorson came down in the elevator. His head was bandaged, and he walked with an unsteady step as he leaned on the arm of a nurse.

  “I’ll call a taxi for you,” the nurse said. “You’re really in no condition to walk far, Mr. Halvorson.”

  I stepped forward to offer my services. Dad had taken the bus to the newspaper office and left me his car.

  “I’ll be glad to take Mr. Halvorson home,” I told the nurse.

  Fred protested that he did not wish to cause anyone any inconvenience, but he allowed himself to be guided to the waiting automobile.

  As I drove toward the riverfront, I kept glancing over at Fred. He sat very still, his gaze on the pavement ahead. I half expected that he would offer up an explanation of the accident—true or not—or at least ask me a few questions, but Fred remained silent.

  “You took rather a hard blow on the head,” I said at last to break the silence.

  Fred merely nodded.

  “Dad and I were astonished to find you lying in the alley at the rear of the Green Parrot. Don’t you remember how you came to be there?”

  “Mind’s a blank.”

  “You must have been struck by someone,” I persevered, refusing to be discouraged. “Can’t you recall who you were with just before the accident?”

  “What is this, a third degree?” Only a faint, amused smile took the edge from his question.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized.

  “It doesn’t matter what happened to me,” Fred said quietly. “I just don’t feel like talking about it—see?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t mean to seem unappreciative. Thanks for taking me home.”

  I parked in front of the house where Fred and Anne lived. It was a pleasant, one-story cottage rather in need of paint, which sat high on a bluff overlooking their dock on the river.

  As Fred got out, the cottage door opened, and Ann
e came running to meet him.

  “You’re hurt! Oh, Fred, what happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” he answered, sidestepping her embrace.

  “But your head!”

  “Your husband was hurt sometime last night,” I explained to Anne. “Just how, we don’t know. My father and I found him lying in an alley at the rear of the Green Parrot.”

  “The Green Parrot—that café?”

  Café was one way of putting it. Anne seemed unaware of the Green Parrot’s reputation, but perhaps she was just playing at being a Dumb Dora.

  “Oh, Fred, I was afraid something like this would happen. Those dreadful men—”

  “Now Anne,” he interrupted. “No theatricals, please. Everything’s all right.” Giving her cheek a playful pinch, he wobbled past her into the cottage.

  Anne turned her frightened eyes on me. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she pleaded.

  “I honestly don’t know, Anne. My father thought someone must have struck your husband from behind, but he’s not told us a thing.”

  “I just knew something of the sort would happen,” Anne said.

  “What do you mean? Does your husband have any enemies who would harm him?”

  “Well, you know there’s no love lost between Fred and Mr. Maxwell.”

  “Mr. Maxwell, the factory owner?”

  “Yes. I’m sure he regards Fred as a terrible trouble-maker.”

  “But surely Mr. Maxwell wouldn’t try to frame Fred for trying to destroy his own factory or dynamiting the bridge. That damaged bridge must be severely delaying the movement of supplies and coal to his factory.”

  “What about that bomb they found in the back Mrs. Maxwell’s car? Surely Mr. Maxwell couldn’t be behind that?” Anne asked. “Oh, I just don’t know what to think.”

  “I suppose men have been known to try and bump off their wives and pin the crime on someone else, but I’m not buying the theory of Mr. Maxwell planting that bomb in the trunk of his wife’s car.”

  Even as I said the words, I realized that the explosion at the factory and the bridge bombing could be ingenious ways to throw everyone off his scent if Mr. Maxwell’s real object was murdering his wife, but I wasn’t eager to share my newly-minted theory with Anne Halvorson. She had enough absurd notions flying around in her head as it was.

  “I’ll admit it wouldn’t seem in Mr. Maxwell’s interest to sabotage either his own factory or the bridge leading to it,” Anne said. “Fred’s been trying to find out who framed him in the bridge dynamiting. He won’t tell me much about it, but I know he’s been trailing down a few leads.”

  “It’s possible,” I said, “that someone who has it out for Mr. Maxwell is exploiting the bad blood between your husband and Mr. Maxwell to pin the crimes on Fred. It may be that whoever is behind these acts of sabotage hopes to play Fred for a stooge.”

  “Perhaps,” Anne agreed. “Fred is hoping to get to the bottom of the scheme.”

  “Isn’t that work for the police?”

  “The police? Their only interest is in piling up more evidence against Fred!”

  “Your husband knows the identity of the saboteur?”

  “He won’t tell me, but I think he does have an idea who blew up the bridge.”

  I scarcely knew whether to accept Anne’s explanation of her husband’s activities. Unquestionably, the Anne believed that he was innocent of all charges against him. For one not prejudiced in his favor, there were many factors to be considered. Why had Fred denied losing the leather billfold? And with whom had he kept the Tuesday night appointment at the Green Parrot?

  “If your husband has any clue regarding the real saboteur, he should present his evidence to the police,” I advised Anne.

  “He’ll never do that until he’s ready to appear in court. Not after the way the police treated him.”

  I realized that nothing was to be gained by discussing the matter further with Anne. I said that I hoped Fred would soon recover completely from his injury, then drove away.

  Later, in repeating the conversation to my father, I admitted that I could not make up my mind regarding Fred Halvorson’s guilt.

  “The case does have interesting angles,” Dad said. “I talked to the Police Commissioner this morning about the Green Parrot. The place long has had a reputation for selling bootleg liqueur and running illegal gaming tables, but I don’t know how those actives might have gotten entangled with bombings and sabotage.”

  “Might they have ties to some organization of gangsters?”

  “Quite possibly. I’m just not sure of what any gangsters motive for blowing things up might be. People who do things like this are invariably motivated by one of two things.”

  “What two things?”

  “Power or money, and I don’t see how blowing up a bridge would get them either.”

  “Perhaps a third party is paying the gang associated with the Green Parrot to do their dirty work. That’s where the money motive comes in.”

  “Very likely,” Dad said. “The real question, as far as Fred Halvorson is concerned, is whether or not he’s in on the scheme, regardless of who’s the mastermind behind this crime-spree.”

  “Don’t forget the damage done to the Maxwell factory and the dud bomb in the trunk of Mrs. Maxwell’s car,” I said. “And I disagree with you, Dad. I don’t think power or money are the only possible motives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The motive might be revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “If I knew that, I’d know who was behind it all,” I said. “What became of the Green Parrot? Have the police been able to trace it to a new location?”

  “Not yet. The place may go completely underground indefinitely, or if it does reopen, it will likely resume operations under a new name.”

  For two days I divided my time between extricating Miss Amhurst from the clutches of the nefarious Baron Von Ribbentrop and puttering around down at the river. As the water remained too rough for safe sailing, Flo and I spent our spare hours scrubbing off mud, repairing the dings, and painting over the scrapes on the Maybelline.

  We called at the Halvorson’s boat dock on several occasions, but Fred was never there. Anne assured us that her husband had completely recovered from his recent mishap.

  “Did he never tell you how he was struck?” I asked Anne.

  “Never. And I’ve given up asking him about it.”

  The river was too high to pay Noah and his ark a visit. However, Anne told me that she was quite certain Sheriff Anderson had not succeeded in getting rid of the old fellow and his animals.

  “The ark is still anchored up Bug Run,” she said. “I know because a steady flow of blue bottles has been floating down here.”

  “Do you always read the messages?” Florence asked.

  “Not always,” Anne said. “But I do from time-to-time because I’m never quite sure what they will say.”

  I never kept Anne long in conversation. She was endeavoring to do the work of two people. Now that Fred was unemployed-but-seemingly-AWOL, they depended on the income from the boat business more than ever.

  Anne ran the motor launch, taking passengers up and down the river. She rented canoes and row boats and looked after repair work which came to the shop. Fred never seemed to be around, but if Anne felt that her husband was shirking his duties, she gave no indication of it.

  “When does Fred’s trial come up?” Florence asked Thursday night as I picked her up from her evening shift at the Greenville Public Library. “Next week, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, the twenty-first,” I said. “From all I can gather, he’ll likely be convicted, too.”

  “I do feel sorry for Anne.”

  “So do I. At first, I didn’t like her very well. Now I know her brusque manner doesn’t mean anything.”

  We were passing a drugstore, and I slowed Bouncing Betsy to a crawl. In the window was a colored advertisement, a poster of a giant chocolate soda, topped with fro
thy whipped cream. I rolled to a stop at the curb to gaze longingly at it.

  “That’s a personal invitation addressed to me,” I said. “How about it, Flo?”

  “Oh, that same picture has been in the window for months,” Flo said. “Why are you so keen on a chocolate soda all of a sudden?”

  “Well, how about a dish of ice cream then? I’m famished.”

  “Being famished is your natural state,” sad Florence. “If we stop now, it’ll be nearly ten before we make it home. Mother will worry. I told her I’d come straight home when the library closed to help her organize donations for the Temperance League jumble sale.”

  “Oh, all right,” I gave in reluctantly. I was just about to pull away from the curb when I saw him.

  “Florence!”

  “Now what? Don’t you dare tell me you’ve left something at the library. You know I’m not supposed to use my key to get in after hours.”

  “See that fellow? Long gray coat. Black hat, ” I said to Flo. “He just came out of the Hotel Claymore.

  “Yes, I see him. What about him?”

  “He’s the headwaiter at the Green Parrot.”

  “I do believe you’re right. I didn’t recognize him in street clothes.”

  “Let’s follow him,” I said, opening the driver’s side door and keeping an eye on the man as he turned off down a side-street. “Maybe we can learn the new location of the Green Parrot.”

  “Oh, Jane, Mother is already asking me lots of uncomfortable questions about my recent activities. I live in constant fear that she’ll find out that while she’s been strong-arming half the female population of Greenville into joining the Temperance League, her only daughter has been spending her time visiting speakeasies and chasing after criminal types. Besides, look at up at the sky. It’s going to start raining for sure, and you know how badly Bouncing Betsy’s roof leaks.”

  “Then I’ll follow him alone,” I insisted, getting out of Bouncing Betsy and closing the door as quietly as possible. “I can’t let this opportunity slip away,” I whispered through the open window. I’d have rolled the window up against the impending storm, but lately Old Bets has taken to casting off parts at random, and one of the bits and pieces she’d recently elected to shed was the crank handle for rolling up the driver’s side window.